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BLACK HELICOPTERS EPISODE 24 FRIDAY the SEVENTH - 5:22 PM As the doors to jails were being opened and shut behind miscreants all over town, Yvette Hall, spokesperson of the youth and law enforcement caucus was approaching the climax of her diatribe onstage in Masty Hall. "So, in conclusion, this convention must say "No!" to racism. The Catfish has already rejected police profiling apartheid, now it's time for me to hear you! No!... to apartheid..." |
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The
crowd shouted back and Tom Beedle lifted his voice to Glenn. "Problem
solved," he winked. "Once we added the word 'citizen' after American
in the resolution, Rinker said Tillerman would go along. He's not really a
racist, you know, he thinks colored people are fine so long as they get jobs
and don't go off raping and robbing, chewing kat and strapping on explosive
belts to blow up the rest of us. What's fascist in that? Americans have a
different perspective on illegal aliens since nine-eleven. Anyway, Henri,
Potter and the University... they've come to a mutual arrangement. Those local
fucks won't be getting out after the convention, they're not getting out for a
long, long time. We're gonna hit them with RICO, P.A., with terrorism counts...
you watch, someone's gonna discover stuff you can make bombs out of in dingy
apartments all over this burg! We're getting Interpol in on it... talking to
some local about a misdemeanor is a felony, but talking to foreigners about
misdemeanors, that's a Class-B felony, twelve to twenty years. And by the time
the bums get out, Wat's got his projects underway, the germ splicers have set
down roots, we'll all have gone to Washington to get rich and you won't be able
to recognize this city."
"Tom,"
Glenn objected, "this seems a little, well, unconstitutional for the
Coalition."
"What
constitution? This is the future of America, Catfish America!" Beedle
smirked, slapping Glenn on the shoulder. "Our America! And,
since we operate by the higher principle, the Golden Rule... them what spends
the gold gets to make the rules. Don't worry, the public will back us... in fact,
it's the main reason we have to deflect some of that civil liberties shit Jack
put in his book, taking out all that indirect repression like dope laws and lay
down the facts. Americans like a man who speaks his mind and does what he says
without any of that Democrat or Republican deviousness, even if there's nothing
in that mind whatsoever... look at McCain, Jesse Ventura, Perot before he went
crazy... Hitler knew that... everything he had in mind he put down on paper, so
there wouldn't be any surprises, any complaints and, remember, the Germans elected
him into office..."
"But
wasn't it as Vice-Chancellor?" Glenn objected.
"Even
better, considering what I told you couple of hours ago... which you get to
keep under your hat, thank you! And it'll go even better because we're not
Germans, we don't kill people for no reason... just move them out of the way
when they mess with our plans. We're the Americans, progressive Americans...
but without all of that tired old baggage of effeminate liberalism. We're the
good guys! We're not like Nazis, not at all!"
"Does
our Cop on the Run know that?"
"Tony?"
The lawyer's hard, greedy features softened like a baby's clutching for candy
as Hall began denouncing violent videogames, one of the favorite targets of the
Catfish. "Tony's a sweetheart, and he's already shmoozing up all his
Hollywood friends. It's OK... they hate all this virtual stuff too, costs them
jobs, money! Remember, the Bush Court ruled that computer-generated so-called
“actors” like that fusion of John Gielgud and Johnny Knoxville aren't eligible
for residuals if fifty-one percent of the pixels are sliced off somebody
dead... do the math! We are going to blow the Democrats away by stealing all
their celebrities... four, six years down the road, the Republicans' too, if
they're not all on respirators by then.
Not only that, Reyna’s buying up the holographic rights to Errol Flynn,
the Duke and Jimmy Stewart to do spots, the way she utilized Marilyn and Coco
Chanel. Jack's scheduled to have Ted
Nugent back to Miller's Ridge for a little hunting in the fall... talk about a
Dick Cheney sort of accident waiting to happen, but we're waiting on that...
hey, there's Anne! What's she doing with that fuckin' loser?"
Anne,
caucusing with Paul Rinker, waved Glenn off as a messenger approached Beedle…
whose face devolved from smug amusement to harrowing rage as the man explained
to him whatever it was he'd said. Glenn suspected that the lawyer hadn't been
so angry since learning that Pinhead, making overtures to the churches... or,
more likely, acting on instructions from the Catfish to preclude any ambitious
Web wannabe Woodward or Bernstein or Drudge with a camera... had ordered the
nudie clubs shut down for the duration of the Conks' convention. No more candy,
no... Tom looked like he'd bitten into an apple filled with razors, poison and
ground glass!
Ignored
by Anne and Beedle, Glenn swayed in one direction, then the other... feet
tapping out anxious little circles on the gum and grease-stained concrete floor
of Masty Hall, head stuck in that stifling nimbus that answered only to Lost!
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FRIDAY the SEVENTH - 5:30 PM
(time approximate)
When
the jail deputies came for their prisoners and... with them... the Sergeant
Andy remembered from the late shift, all five were staring blankly at Yvonne
Jackson and Tracy Parkinson at the newsdesk wrapping up Live on Five, the only
local competition to Nelson and his bunch over at Eleven since, Andy recalled,
Channel Three had pulled its evening and late news for reruns of Hogan's Heroes
(that strange old sitcom about wisecracking prisoners of a Nazi concentration
camp).
They
unlocked and opened the metal door, standing in the dim light of jail until one
deputy cleared his throat, saying "You'll come with us now."
His
prisoners said nothing, neither moving nor speaking as Tracy Parkinson began
the evening's roundup on the progress of Baby Claire's fundraising.
In
two steps, the short, white-haired sergeant crossed the cell, reached for the
dial, and sent Live on Five spinning off into an electronic void.
"The
charges are being dropped against all of you," the Sergeant said,
"with the exception of you, Mr. Herman. The others are free to leave. Ms.
Cromartie and Mr. Morrison, there are details to be worked out with this
gentleman at the Bureau of Permits."
And,
with that, Sylvester, from Disson's Permits Office manifested over his left
shoulder like bureaucracy's slippery angel. "That is to say," he
cooed, "a more reasonable arrangement may, perhaps, be negotiated. Of
course, should you prefer, we'll just... how you say?... call things even, and
go about our businesses."
Andy,
slipping away from the outreaching deputies, sat down, back against the wall.
"Oh. You mean I can get up, go back with you to City Hall and resume the
pointless discussions while the convention's already starting, so you have someone
to lay the blame on when things blow?
"Andy,
it's not always about you, it's peoples' safety... we have to try!"
Rael appealed to Victor... "Help me get him up, I think his foot's fallen
asleep!"
The
deputies shook their heads, watching, sadly, while she and Victor dragged Andy
to an upright or, at least, leaning posture.
"I
liked it better when we were just waiting to be shot," he remarked, still
allowing himself to be herded out of the cell, past the puzzled faces of the
officials.
"That's
ridiculous!" Rael scolded. "If you stop learning, even in jail,
you've stopped learning in life! Yesterday I met the fruitarians, down from
Vermont? Blew my mind! They say that... like... grain? It's murder, bad as
meat... worse, like abortion! Bread! Spaghetti! Like Mary Antoinette... you
know? Let them eat cake? Besides, store bought veggies with spliced animal
genes makes eating them murder, too! Murder... all the fruitarians eat is dead
fruit, naturally fallen, not picked, and from reliable trees and, first, they
remove the seeds and plant them. They're so far advanced ethically that we're
pathetic next to them... it's terrible, but we still have the time to learn and
reform..."
All the while she had been guiding Andy out of the cell and, once through, the deputies shut the steel door with a whoosh and a clang. From behind the metal, Andy could hear Ace, screaming his lungs out... presumably at Sylvester. "Hey! Hey! What kind of brother are you, letting them white folks go, leaving me behind. Hey... fuck you!" his screams redounded, though diminishing with every step Andy took towards freedom. "Fuck you, motherfucker! Fuck you!"
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